


Noisy Boy

by kaonite



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Some Robot Gore, Soundwave's Totally Radical Soundtrack, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaonite/pseuds/kaonite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortfic on SG Jazz. In which people get tortured, and music is important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noisy Boy

**Author's Note:**

> For my Jazz, the glorious bastard.

The noise was a disease. It curled through his lines like an acidic hallucinogen, sparking his deepest circuitry, pumping nauseous joy into the module of his brain. Jazz was a shell containing the noise. The music. The beat to which he slid and swayed down the corridor, evading the hot-eyed snarls of his fellow Autobots, heading for the Room where his guest patiently waited.

He experienced a long code-burst of satisfaction. Yes, his guests, his unwilling guests, with their cracked blue optics and their tiny scraps of hope. Only about half ever yielded useful information under his methods, but the rest made up for it with their screaming. 

Jazz smiled. Around him, mechs shrunk away with a paranoid murmur.

Their fear sent a pleasant thrill up his spinal strut, and he cranked up his internal volume with glee. The track currently playing had the delicious taste of irony; Jazz nodded approvingly, sending the file ahead to his Room as a wake-up call to his guest. Before the war, Soundwave had been almost hysterically revered in the clubs of Cybertron. He'd discovered the Decepticon was disappointingly soft in person, but he could appreciate those dark heavy beats any day. After all - they kept him anchored. Mostly sane.

Already, Jazz could hear the faint pump of bass from behind his doors. They were unlocked; why secure a room that everyone avoided at all costs? Entry to his Interrogation Room was a one-way ticket. It was the place sparks went to gutter out, extinguished by the slow, sharp servos of Prime's Head of Special Operations. His territory, his domain. Something like pride slashed itself over his face.

The single mech inside the Room was conscious, already screaming invective over the loud kick of Soundwave's bass. "Did ya miss me?" Jazz crowed in delight. "Bet ya missed me! All alone in the quiet. So sad." It was a mistake: the mention of quiet made him shudder, and sudden shadows rolled over his visor like a black tide. No, he snarled. It wouldn't happen for a while yet. Focus on the moment. The white. The light. Newly determined, Jazz twirled over to the manual controls and shoved the volume as high as it would go.

The Decepticon roared in irritation. "Slag you!" 

"What's that?" Jazz screamed at top volume. "Can't hear ya over the music!"

oOo

Half a joor later, he straightened up, forearms dripping the gore of mech fluid. His energon burned with the beat. Soundwave's music urged him on, and Jazz gripped a coil of vitals and tore, reveling in the electrostatic burst, the shrieking arch of pain. A slow flood of pink submerged his hand. Tenderly, Jazz brought his helm to the Decepticon's audial and repeated himself for the millionth time.

"What are the Axion codes?"

"No, no - no - no, I'm not going to, no, please- " The Decepticon heaved coolant with his words, bubbling from some deep, geyser-like fracture in his internals. Jazz twisted his sharp hand vengefully. Over the pounding distortion of complex music, he heard a sobbing, choked-off whimper of "Primus help me." 

"Don't lose the beat, now. What are the Axion codes?" 

"Please, I can't tell you," shrieked the Decepticon, and his vocalizer popped with a twisted, red-hot burst of static. He clawed at his sparking throat in agony, wailing nonsense at counterpoint to Jazz's favorite song. Maybe he'd spare this one for being so very harmonic. 

"One last time. What are the Axion codes?"

His only answer was a grating whirr. 

Jazz laughed relentlessly. In his victim's optics, he could see the meaning of fear. Without shame, he admitted that he enjoyed the weak ones - or at least their deactivation. Feeling their internals melt in his razor-edged fist was the sweetest feeling, he knew. The death of something unfit to live - the silencing of their unworthy sparkbeat - all of it, richer than innermost energon from a syphonist. 

He flicked his conductor's hands and the mech lost a limb. It hit the ground on a downbeat, clattering emptily above the strut-shaking bass. Oh, Soundwave would be pleased to know Jazz strived to keep the flow - or maybe not. Decepticons had no appreciation for nice things. He shrugged, moved on.

For a short while Jazz amused himself without direction, accompanied by the loud, sweet gasps and system-skips of the damaged Decepticon. Boredom brought the finality of a last wound. Energon gushed around his short blade, from a small, neat puncture wound in the main line; the mech would die exsanguinated. Impulsively, he decided to speed the process. The taste of recycled system fluid was bitter, not nourishing, but he cupped his hands in it and gorged himself anyway, just to see the delicious horror flare in his victim's gaze. Jazz drank and drank, knowing he would need the strength, and the Decepticon's twitches began to slow over time. He hummed comfortingly as the mech grew still.

Seventeen breems later, the blue light drained from those optics. Jazz turned off the music.

There was silence. Intimate silence. No distractions, only a single goal.

He lifted the brain module from its wrecked nest, somber now. Quickly, quickly - his wrists sprouted a hundred biting connectors, and Jazz picked apart the damp layers of circuitry to plug himself in. A dead mech had weak firewalls, defense algorithms that were unable to update themselves in realtime, with no sentience to guide them. He knew it was the best way, and yet his servos grated with reluctance. Each new connection brought the coldness, the rot - the dead-air radio flatness of a deactivated processor. No music, only decaying code, and the echoing pain of Jazz's work. What mech wouldn't loathe the silence, knowing what he did? 

The last connector slotted home. Jazz cradled the Decepticon's half-helm in his lap, hunched over. His optics flickered down as he began to fall through vorns of secure data. Trinary glyphs had no sound, no matter how he willed it. 

No, it was silence, and more silence still. There was no music in death.


End file.
